


Imagine

by TheWordsmithy



Category: Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy - Douglas Adams
Genre: Disappointment, Fantasizing, Fluff, Holding Hands, M/M, Tea
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-11
Updated: 2013-06-11
Packaged: 2017-12-14 14:58:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 740
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/838189
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheWordsmithy/pseuds/TheWordsmithy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which the idea of Arthur and Ford spending a pleasant evening together in the former's house is suggested and in which the results (or lack thereof) of this idea are explained.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Imagine

Imagine, if you will, a small house in an English village, not of any importance to anyone except for a man called Arthur Dent, who also happens to live in it. Imagine a soft, quiet summer’s night in which Mr. Dent is at his house, wearing his favorite bathrobe and engaged in the pleasant activity of reading a good book and drinking a cup of particularly satisfactory tea. It is a lovely night for him.

Now imagine, if you will, that Arthur Dent is not the only one in the house and that his friend Ford Prefect is there as well, engaged in behavior somewhat similar to Dent’s, but instead of reading a book, he is writing one (notes for what was going to be the entry for Earth in _The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy_ but is turning into a general guide to understanding humans), and instead of tea, he has a glass of wine (which, unlike his typical regrettable behavior of drinking solely for intoxication, he enjoys slowly, savoring each sip). It is a lovely night for him as well.

And now imagine that, as the two of them silently continue with their activities, they are holding hands, and no other form of contact or communication occurs between them other than Arthur occasionally punctuating the peace by squeezing Ford's hand, or Ford stroking the back of Arthur's hand with his thumb. They don’t speak or make any more physical contact because they don't need to. Arthur is not distracted from his reading, and Ford is not distracted from his writing. Like their intertwined fingers, they are tangled up in a feeling of quiet loveliness. At least for this night, they need nothing more than their literature, their drinks of choice, and each other.

Unfortunately, this moment never actually happened. It was, after all, something you were asked to _imagine_. The only place in which it ever happened was Arthur Dent's mind. He spent quite a few nights alone in his house in the company of a book and a cup of tea and wishing his beloved friend could be part of this company as well. Unfortunately, he never did. Ford never showed up at Arthur's house at night, or if he did, it was usually because he was staggering home from some party and, on a whim, chose to direct his course to Arthur's home rather than his own, and those sorts of nights unfortunately couldn’t result in the sorts of nights Arthur imagined. 

And he never really had it in him to ask Ford to come over to his house. In the end, Arthur Dent was a very inept man in a number of ways, including socially and romantically. How would he describe this idea, anyway? "I thought it would be nice if you came to my house, where I could read and you could write that thing you're always working on, and I'd have a nice cup of tea and you'd have a nice glass of wine, and we'd both hold hands, which of course sounds incredibly awkward and is probably equally stupid, but it's just something I thought would be nice." No. Even if he could think of a better way to suggest the imagined activity, he knew he'd never be bold enough to actually suggest it. He just wasn't that kind of man. And as a result, he never had the experience of having his favorite person in the universe over for a night of reading and peace and hand-holding.

And then that fateful Thursday happened, when first Arthur's house and then his planet was destroyed, and Ford saved him from becoming part of the debris left over from the terrible stupid accident. His life after that took on a more chaotic and terrifying turn, but there were occasionally moments of peace and quiet between the two of them. But they'd never be the same sort of moments Arthur imagined back when such moments were a possibility. The chance had been there for quite a long time. Arthur could have chosen, at any time, to act upon it and live out his most pleasant fantasy. But he never made that choice, and, like his house and the planet Earth and any semblance of "normality" in his life, it had been obliterated, with no chance of ever returning. He could only play it over and over in his head – the best evening that never was.


End file.
